The Bridge of Peace (14 page)

“You have that much confidence in her?”

“Ya.”

“I worry she’ll pick my mothering skills to pieces, given the chance. But if you’re wanting an honest opinion, I’ve never seen her shy from speaking her mind when asked.”

“You’re afraid
Lena
will judge you? That’s not her way. And you can’t go on letting fear rule you and our family.” Grey shifted. “Until today I didn’t realize that’s what holds us captive. But you did.”

“You say that as though fear is some shadow that can be dispelled at will.”

“And you treat it like it’s a god to revere and bow down to.”

“If Ivan is under her, she’ll … know.”

“Know?” That eerie feeling ran through him again, as if alerting him that what she was trying to say was important. “Know what?”

“About us … where you sleep.”

How had he lived with her all these years and not known she was afraid of everything? “Ivan doesn’t even know.”

“But he will, given time.”

While anger rumbled, he prayed. She had manipulated too much of their lives in order to hide her fears. No wonder she kept her distance emotionally as well as physically. She didn’t want him to object to her reasoning.

One of the children at Allen’s place let out a horrifying scream. “
Nee! Helf
.”

Grey rose and moved closer to the creek bank.

Phoebe
. Allen’s youngest daughter. Grey stood too far away to see if she was hurt. Lennie flew out of her brother’s house, running barefoot and like wildfire toward Phoebe. Lennie grabbed her up, clearly checking her out and talking to her. Phoebe wrapped her arms and legs around Lennie, sobbing. More adults came from around the corners of the house or from inside, hurrying toward the wailing. When Allen arrived, Lennie passed Phoebe to her Daed.

“Should you go?” Elsie asked.

The creek that separated their properties was fairly wide and deep. The only way to cross it was by horse. “I don’t think so.”

Allen looked up and waved. “Phoebe saw a raccoon coming toward her. We’re fine.”

“Okay, thanks,” Grey hollered.

Phoebe raised her head and looked toward them. She hollered in Pennsylvania Dutch that she wasn’t fine and that if Grey saw that thing again, he was to shoot it.

Allen laughed and patted her back. Soon the adults had rounded up all the children and taken them inside.

“You think it could be a rabid raccoon?”

“Doubtful. It obviously ran off when she screamed. It’s a nocturnal creature hunting for food.”

Elsie stood in the darkness, studying the sky. “Or God trying to tell me something I should have already known.”

He didn’t know what she meant, but he wouldn’t bother to ask.

Tears welled in her eyes. “I didn’t want you to know my genes were poor ones. I … I’m sorry.”

Beyond her tears, he saw her self-righteousness begin to break, and a dusting of forgiveness settled over his heart.

Under the starless night, Dwayne studied Lena’s house. The chilly air seeped through his clothing. A dog perched its paws on a second-story windowsill and barked at him through a closed window. Dwayne set his toolbox next to the tree and stayed put, not caring what fit the dog threw. If they let the mutt outside, he’d slice its throat.

A woman came to the window, but the dark night shrouded his view. It was probably the stupid teacher herself. As far as he knew, only she and her Daed lived here. She opened the glass pane. The girl was an idiot and an ugly thorn in his flesh. He didn’t put up with thorns. She seemed to spot him, and he propped against the tree and lit a cigarette.

He intended to get even, and she might as well know it now. Picking on his brother in class. Taking the watch back. That awful cake she brought to the cabin. It had to be poison, and Aaron refused to say a word about it to her. He said he knew Lena and it must be a joke of some type.

Dwayne spat on the ground. She knew exactly what she was doing, and so did he.

As he looked at her, new plans floated to him out of thin air. Deciding that a low profile would profit him more than giving himself away, he grabbed his toolbox and got off their property.

He walked the two miles to the schoolhouse and looked around. The playground was a perfect setting for causing trouble. He set his toolbox down, pulled out a pair of tin snips, and began working away at the chains that held up the swings. It might take a few times of someone swinging before the chain broke, but when it did, somebody would be hurt, and poor Teacher Lena would answer for it. It wasn’t much, but it seemed like a perfect opening chapter to what he intended to be a very long book.

A cat meowed, drawing his attention. He tossed the tin snips into the toolbox. “Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” The creature slowly came to him. Its soft, warm fur felt good against his cold hands. The cat purred as he rubbed her ears. “What are you doing hanging around an empty school? Maybe you’ve been out catching field mice. Now that you’ve seen me, you won’t tell, will you?” He laughed and reached for the knife in his pocket. “I think not.”

Twelve

Lena brought her horse to a stop near the schoolhouse barn. “
Zerick
.” She repeated the word as the horse backed up until the small cart she’d ridden in today stood under the lean-to. The brisk ride in an open rig had done wonders for her. She’d finally shaken that eerie feeling she’d had since seeing a man staring at her house during the wee hours of the morning. Probably a drunk. Possibly a Peeping Tom. Usually both were harmless.

A fresh week lay ahead of her. The air smelled like fall, and leaves had begun to change color. She put her old mare in its small pasture, the one designed just for the teacher’s horse. After she grabbed her goodies off the seat of the cart, she hurried into the school, wanting to get a fire started in the potbelly stove. Her scholars loved putting their lunches near a warm stove in cool weather. It wouldn’t be cold enough to build a roaring fire and bank embers today—just a little one to knock the chill out of the air. But she’d brought homemade chocolate chip cookies, and when those got warm from sitting on the stove, she’d have a treat her scholars would work hard to earn.

She built the first fire of the year in her faithful old stove. After she set the cookie tin on top, she went to each student’s desk and opened the spiral-bound notebook left there for her. She read the entries and left smiley faces, asked humorous questions, and shared a thought or two. These works didn’t get a grade. Her students wrote to her whatever they wanted to, and she responded. Some wrote the beginning to made-up stories, and she’d finish the tale. Others shared events from their own life, but they didn’t tell the whole story. That was her job. Their goal was to stump her so that the real ending was nothing like what she wrote. When they read them aloud, they shared the real ending and then read what she’d written. Their laughter never rang as loudly as when they read her responses. The older ones knew she cloaked her responses under the pretense of telling what probably took place. She spun yarns in hopes of making them love writing, reading, and using their imaginations.

She sat at Peter’s desk, bracing herself for what he’d written to her.

I rided down the road on my way home aftr scool when I saw my teacher in her yard plantin more flowers. I hate flowers. I’d ruther be tended to than tend to somethin. But the teach must like them. They don’t like her. I know this cuz …

Wow. That wasn’t a bad entry at all. Nothing biting or threatening. That improvement alone refreshed her. He’d written several sentences and spelled correctly most of the words she’d been working with him on. Definite improvement.

She tapped her pencil on the paper.
Hmm. I know this cuz …

“Think, Lena.” She put her pencil on the paper, hoping an answer would come that he’d enjoy.

I know this cuz … one day the petunias ran away from her and chased after me.

Peter, Peter, petunia hater,

Didn’t want flowers, but wanted something greater

Teacher Lena chased them down

When she caught them, they wilted to the ground.

“That’s not good enough, Lena.
Kumm uff
, think.” She tapped her pencil on the paper, looking about the room for inspiration. Surely she could think of a better little ditty than—

She noticed a pool of liquid under her desk. She stood and moved in closer. When she rounded the side of her table, she saw a white cat in her chair, covered in its own blood. The thick red syrup dripped onto the floor, making Lena’s skin crawl. Her mouth went dry, and her body shook. Who would do such a thing?

Feeling dizzy and sick, she eased up to it and touched it. She jerked back, appalled at how death felt. Its stiff body sickened her, and she ran outside for fresh air. Teachers had some awfully mean tricks pulled on them at times, usually by the older boys in school or the ones who’d graduated not long ago. Drawing cool air into her lungs, she knew what had to be done—and before her students arrived. Ignoring her desire to sit down and cry, she hurried to the lean-to and grabbed a shovel and old towels that were usually reserved for craft days.

On the verge of being sick to her stomach, she moved the cat’s body onto the blade of the shovel and carried it outside. Her body disobeyed her, trembling as she walked across the gravel driveway and to the far side of the lean-to. It seemed like the best burial spot. If anyone passed by while she dug the grave, they weren’t likely to spot her between the huge tree and the far side of the lean-to. She eased the cat’s body onto the ground and returned to her classroom. The next step was no easier—mopping up its blood. Trying to hurry so she could bury the cat and the bloody towels before anyone arrived, she couldn’t keep her tears at bay.

Who would do this and why?

The older boys, and sometimes girls, could be pretty spiteful—seemingly angered by Amish restrictions and spurred into action by wild hormones, pettiness, and immaturity. But of all the nasty things she’d heard of over the years, mutilating someone’s pet and leaving it bleeding in a teacher’s chair was beyond normal. An occasional squirrel or deer’s head might greet an unsuspecting teacher on the steps leading to the school. But someone’s pet? She shuddered, trying to reason out who might’ve done this. The culprit could be from any district around here, not necessarily one of her students or former students. Even though she didn’t have grandiose sentiments of how some students felt about her, she found it hard to believe any of her students, past or present, had the type of cruelty to do this. Still, thoughts of Peter’s attitude toward her kept tumbling inside her. Surely he hadn’t. She saw good inside him. Of course she saw meanness too.

The eerie feeling didn’t leave her as she mopped up the blood and scrubbed the chair and floor until they looked clean again. After dumping the kindling out of its crate, she used it to carry the items outside. She grabbed the shovel and jammed it into the ground. Her body jolted, but the rocklike ground barely gave way. She slammed the blade into the edge of the earth again and again, making very little progress. Children’s voices filled the air as they walked toward the schoolhouse. Buggies came and went as parents dropped their children off.

Should she run to get one of the Daeds to help her? A man could make quick work of this solid ground, but then her scholars would find out for sure, and it’d cause days of emotional unrest. Doubtful of her best course of action, she kept digging, hoping no one came looking for her. Once past the hardest-packed dirt, she made better progress and managed to carve a decent-sized hole.

“Lena.” The door to the schoolhouse slammed as several scholars called to her. They’d begun hunting for her, but she needed only a few more minutes. Using the shovel, she tried to pick up the cat. She couldn’t get the blade under it.

“Kumm uff.” She tossed the shovel to the side and picked up the cat. As she laid it in the hole, Marilyn screamed. “Snowball! Why are you throwing my Snowball into the ground?”